NPR's 600 Word Challenge: Keep the Change

Dear Feed Store Zealots,


In what is a slight change of venues, I have written the following story and submitted it to NPR's 600 Word Short Story contest. Why not? After all, how many self-indulgent personal examinations can you stand? Unless, of course they are universal in nature.
The contest requires that your story be no more than 600 words, and include the following 4 specifically:
Plant
Fly
Trick
Button
The story must also at least in some way reference a photo of an open newspaper on a red cafe table.
I love a challenge like this. There's a great little book for creative types who have hit some block or other called, The Blank Canvas. I highly recommend it for anyone interested in creating anything. It is also very useful for teachers. The most important concept it related is this:
a blank canvas, page, etc., is inherently terrifying for many people. But, it you simply draw a circle or square creating a boundary, the psyche is released from the fear of infinite possibilities and can work again. It makes perfect sense, and I've used the technique in many ways since.
So, this 600 Word challenge is probably the easiest writing assignment ever, at least for me. I could write dozens of them, each completely different in content and style. The addition of the requirement for the 4 words and the photo makes it fun and ultimately even easier. I think mine ended up at 598 words. I wrote it in one fell swoop, watching the word count at the bottom of the page, and learning only halfway through what was going to happen to my characters.
The funny thing about writing is that you often are not sure where you're headed. Or what is going to happen to your people. That often stops us from writing. But it shouldn't. That's what makes it 'creative' vs. report writing.
Last thing: it took about 90 minutes, one cup of coffee and one cigarette. I wish I could do this all day long!



"Keep the Change"

His eyes fell on the girl’s jeans, wrapped tightly around her legs like a toddler begging for sweets, as she delivered his eggs. He noticed the blur of chalk marks along her thighs. Yesterday there had been blue stains on the fingers of her left hand. He wondered about this, as he wondered about all things relating to her. He never asked, though, for anything but eggs over easy, no bacon, and tomatoes instead of toast. Her smile drifted as she set the plate before him and asked if he needed a warm up.
On Thursday he had brought her a plant, Thai basil, from the farmer’s market. She had been surprised, (or embarrassed?) at the gesture. Since then he had kept his distance, going so far as to sit in the other girl’s station. But today, he had been emboldened by a slug of single malt.
The whites of the eggs surrounding their bright yellow centers glistened on his plate, and by some trick of the light, winked at him knowingly. He stabbed them, vigorously stirring the runny yolks into the hash browns, and smiled at their destruction. “Button your lips,” he muttered. His mother always said that, “Button your lips, buster,” when he was being smart.
“What? Did you say something,” she asked. He hadn’t realized she was nearby. How had that happened? He always knew when she was close: he sensed her, or more likely, smelled her, as she moved, tending to the needs of her patrons like a saint.
“Uh, well, actually, no. I mean, I was talking to myself. Not that I talk to myself, but rather the eggs. I mean, I was talking to the eggs, they weren’t talking to me…” He halted.
She was looking at him, closely. He was crazy, he was sure that’s what she was thinking.
“I’m not crazy,” he murmured.
“No,” she laughed, “you’re not crazy. Aren’t you a teacher, at the college?”
She was talking to him, asking him a personal question. As if she weren’t an angel, a sacred being sent to salvage his soul. As if her floating essence wasn’t the air of life to which he desperately clung every morning.
She waited, for a moment, for a response. He looked at her dark eyes, her spun sugar hair – why did women do that to their hair, turn it all kinds of colors, none of them natural, not even close? She was waiting.
“Uh, yes, a teacher, that’s right. How did you…”
“Oh, I don’t know, you just look like the type, you know, professorial and all.”
He glanced down at himself, and thought, “’Professorial’”? Where did she get that word? A waitress, using words like, “professorial”. How would she know what a professor looked like? What, was she a student? She could be, most of the waitresses in town were students trying to get by. He’d never waited tables, but he knew that’s how it worked. He had gone to college on scholarships, never needed aid. Private university back East.
“There’s chalk on your jeans. Yesterday you had blue fingers.”
She brushed at her jeans, looked at her left hand. “Oh, I play pool, a lot.” She laughed. “Tournaments sometimes. More money than here.”
He stared at her. A fly landed between them. He reached out and smashed it with the flat of his hand on the red linoleum table. She looked startled. Then she asked, “What do you teach?”
He stood abruptly, silently drew a twenty from his wallet and tossed it over the remains of the fly.
“Psychology.”
He left without another word.